


The Care and Keeping of Cardassians

by raemanzu, spica_tea



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Illustrated, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:52:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raemanzu/pseuds/raemanzu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spica_tea/pseuds/spica_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Cardassians weren't so humanoid? This is a series of shorts where Garak is a less human Cardassian, based on spica_tea's redesign. Some of them will be rewrites of actual scenes in the show, some of them will have an original "plot". I may attempt to keep the timeline linear, but I'm not making any promises. This is just for fun. Maybe I'll even have Dukat-centric chapters too! Now with illustrations by spica_tea!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Contact

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cardassian Redesign](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/31839) by spica_tea. 



 

 

[ ](http://spica-tea.deviantart.com/art/Good-day-to-you-Doctor-418450674)

            Doctor Julian Bashir sat at the replimat, at a table which had become more or less his favorite, as far as generic tables in unremarkable places go. He was reading a fascinating and important article from a medical journal about the effects of certain antidepressants on the telepathic ability of Betazoids. The subject matter was wonderful, but the dry academic writing style was putting him to sleep. He took another sip of Tarkalean tea, and suddenly saw a flash of green and grey out of the corner of his eye—the smooth inhuman gait of a long-limbed, scaled stranger. He set down his glass and didn’t look up.

            The owner of that gait circled behind his table, and at that point Bashir couldn’t even pretend not to notice him. He sat up straight in his chair, craned his neck to look up, to his left, and a pale reptilian face smiled down at him. Bashir couldn’t help but stare now. It was basically human in structure: the profile was roughly the same, the proportions and set of the eyes, nose, and mouth all similar enough. But the jaw, eyes, neck and forehead were ridged with scales, and the black hair which swept backward was really made up of very fine, long, thin feathers. There was something charismatic about that smile, something fascinating in seeing such a human expression on an inhuman face. But why was this tall Cardassian standing right by his chair, smiling down at him?

            He suddenly realized he’d been gaping up at this stranger with the same expression as a child staring at some huge magnificent animal at the zoo. But the Cardassian didn’t seem to mind—he looked just as delighted, one hand raised with pointed fingers spread in a graceful gesture.

            “It’s Doctor Bashir, isn’t it?” the Cardassian’s voice was smooth but tense, as if he were trying to contain himself. When he opened his mouth to speak, Bashir got a glimpse of dark lines just inside his mouth—lips so thin as to be invisible when he wasn’t speaking.  “Of course it is.” The Cardassian’s smile grew and he tilted his head slightly. “May I… introduce myself?”

            “Uh…” Bashir tried to shake himself free of the trance that had come over him at being approached in such a friendly way by such a dangerous creature. “Uhhh, yes! Yes, of course.”

             “My name is Garak,” said the creature, enunciating his name carefully so there could be no mistake. “A Cardassian by birth, obviously.” He grinned almost sheepishly. Bashir took half a second to glance at the strange green-striped shirt and red-polka-dot vest that Garak was wearing. “The only one of us left on this station as a matter of fact, so…I _do_ appreciate making new friends, when _ever_ I can.” Garak moved sideways around the table, smiling all the while, so Bashir wouldn’t have to crane his neck so much. Bashir looked down at the pants, tucked into strange boots designed for long paw-like feet. Cardassians walked on their toes.

            “Please, take a seat—oh,” Bashir cut off at the little breath of a laugh from the Cardassian. He got a tiny glance at Garak’s curled, scaly tail, flat along the bottom and rounded on the upper side, jutting stiffly at a downward angle from underneath the back of his suit. Of course, Garak couldn’t sit down in a human chair with an anatomy like that. “Sorry, I didn’t realize—”

            Garak waved it off. “No need to apologize, as long as you don’t mind me standing.”

            “No, no, not at all.”

            “There used to be some suitable chairs here, but most of them have been replaced in the past year. You _are_ new to this station, I believe?” Garak’s voice took on a particular high, thin lilt, as if he was either greatly amused or greatly offended. Bashir wondered nervously how to reply when he didn’t know how to read Cardassian body language or tone of voice. He decided the safest route was to be as polite and straightforward as possible.

            “I-I am, yes.” Bashir smiled back with a faint exhalation of wonder. This had to be the Cardassian spy he’d heard about. Garak crouched a little so he wouldn’t tower over the table so much. Absent-mindedly, Bashir tried to brush aside the threadlike blades of grass which were tucked into a vase on the table, obstructing his view of the way Garak was blinking at him pleasantly, birdlike. The little bits of floral arrangement went right back to where they were before. Bashir caught himself and stammered on. “Though… though I understand you’ve been here quite a while.”

            “Ah! You know of me then!” Garak looked surprised and delighted, his head jutting forward a little on its long neck.

            “Uh, would you care for some of this Tarkalean tea? It’s very good.” Bashir quickly backpedaled—maybe repeating public opinion about the Cardassian wasn’t the best thing for their newly budding acquaintanceship.

            Garak’s smile faded into something less manic and more contemplative. His voice was still all silk and charisma though. “What a _thoughtful_ young man. How nice that we’ve met!”

            Bashir lifted a hand to ask someone to order a second mug from the replicator for him, but hesitated. The few people who weren’t refusing to look his way were giving Garak dirty looks. He could go get it himself, but somehow he was afraid to move. Garak’s eyes were on him and this was an opportunity—there must be some reason the Cardassian had approached him. Better to find out what it was right away.

            “You know,” Bashir said nervously, trying to keep a normal, friendly tone, but he was oddly breathless. “Some people say that… you remained on DS9 as the eyes and… ears of your fellow Cardassians.”

            A shocked look came over Garak’s face and he put one scaly hand on the table, leaning toward the Doctor. “You don’t say!” he whispered. Then the shock was replaced by cautious, amused curiosity, his head tilting in a way which ruffled his feathery hair and reminded Bashir forcefully of a chicken trying to get a better look at a tasty grub. “Doctor… you’re not… intimating… that I’m some sort of _spy_ , are you?”

            Bashir felt himself gaping again. Garak’s manner was invasive, threatening, but so mesmerizing that he couldn’t help but sit helpless in his seat. His mouth worked for a moment before he managed to say “I wouldn’t know.” He tacked a quick “sir” onto the end, just in case. He felt like a mouse hypnotized by a swaying cobra.

            “Ah,” Garak said softly. “An open mind. The _essence_ of intellect.” For a moment Bashir had the uncanny feeling that Garak was secretly laughing at him. He had that sort of look in his eyes, somehow. Garak’s pink tongue flicked out to wet his very thin, dark lips, so quickly that Bashir almost didn’t see it. “As you may also know, I have a clothing shop nearby, so if you should require _any_ apparel—or simply wish, _as I do_ , for a bit of enjoyable company now and then…I’m at your disposal.” Throughout this sentence Garak’s smile flickered at the edges of his mouth, and there was a strangely intense undertone.

            Bashir felt distinctly that he was in way over his head. What did this dinosaur want from him? Why these strange mannerisms which in a human would be either intimidating or seductive? They obviously meant something else in this case. The Cardassian seemed to be luring him toward something, but what?

            “You’re… very kind, Mister Garak,” Bashir said unevenly.

            “Oh,” Garak protested in a low, soft voice. “It’s just Garak. Plain and simple….”

            “Garak,” Bashir said it with him, and nodded to show he’d understood.

            “Now,” said Garak, straightening to his full height and stepping sideways so that once again he loomed over Bashir. “Good day to you, Doctor.” Bashir nodded and went for a sip of tea, waiting for the Cardassian to circle back around past his chair on the way out. But the gentle footsteps stopped right behind him, and suddenly those scaly, pointed fingers were resting lightly on his shoulders. Bashir jumped, his entire body seizing up.

Garak didn’t seem to notice, his tone as friendly and enigmatic as before. “I’m so glad to have made such an… _interesting_ new friend today.”

Bashir stared down at the long hand on his right shoulder, at an utter loss for words. Fortunately, Garak chose that moment to release him and walk away, weaving carefully between the tables so as not to disturb anything with his tail. Some of the replimat patrons glared at his back anyway. Bashir gaped after him, unable to tear his eyes from the Cardassian’s long strides. Picking up his feet and setting them down with the same predatory grace as a cat, Garak moved out of sight, but not before glancing back at Bashir. He had to turn his body a bit to do it—on the whole, Cardassians didn’t seem to be too flexible. With one last smile, Garak walked out of sight, the ridges above his eyes casting deep shadows onto them so that Bashir couldn’t read them at all.

Bashir got up from the table, jittery with excitement and fear, and rushed off to find the Captain.            


	2. Flirty Flirt Come Buy A Shirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bashir's first REAL visit to Garak's tailor shop. Flirting. Lizard bellies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cardassian chairs. Because a chair is not always just a chair!

It was an early morning in the infirmary. Bashir was eager to get to work after having to abandon everything the day before, when the entire station (including himself) had been stricken with a specially designed viral form of aphasia. The frustration at not being able to communicate had been nearly unbearable! But luckily the cure had been found and quickly administered to everyone on the station.

Bashir had only just walked in when a familiar voice came from behind him.

“Ah, good morning, Doctor! I see you _do_ know how to be punctual when it suits you. But then, I’m not sure being three hours early is much better than being two minutes late.”

Bashir turned to see Garak hovering in the doorway to the infirmary, poised upright and perfectly balanced on his toes—indeed, for him to set his heels on the ground would have looked ridiculous, given the anatomy of his legs. Thankfully, he wasn’t wearing that dreadful polka-dot thing he’d had on the first day they’d met. In fact, today’s red suit looked quite dashing, and had two tails which hung on either side of Garak’s actual tail.

“Good morning, Garak,” Bashir said, mirroring Garak’s smile. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, I’m not here for medical treatment if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Garak said, stepping lithely toward him until they were about a foot apart. He was as oblivious to Bashir’s bubble of personal space as he’d been the first day they met. “Unless, of course, you’d like to learn more about Cardassian physiology.” Garak’s grin widened, his chin tilted up a smidge so that Bashir could see beneath the ridges on his face to where his eyes glinted mischievously.

Bashir found himself staring at the black inner part of Garak’s lips as he spoke, trying not to read too much in to _that_ sentence. They were nicely distracting.

“You seem like such a naturally inquisitive man,” Garak went on. “So do feel free to… inquire.”

“Uh,” Bashir said, fidgeting with his datapad. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Garak. Now what _can_ I do for you?”

Garak’s insinuating smile didn’t waver. “Oh, I just happened to be taking an early morning stroll and noticed that you were at your shift a bit earlier than usual. You barely got a chance to look at my merchandise the other night.” Garak’s tone implied this was a real shame. “I imagine the wardrobe of a Starfleet officer tends to be quite limited, but… I think you’ll find that I can accommodate a _wide_ range of personal tastes.” And here Garak dipped his head down toward Bashir with a significant raising of his scaly eyebrows. No personal space here.

There it was again. That intense undertone… the one, Bashir was quickly learning, that meant that Garak was trying to say more than what he said. And that sly smile. Why did Cardassians have to be so… so….

Shifty? said one part of his mind. Well, he had to admit Garak still scared him a bit, but he knew now that as Cardassians went, Garak wasn’t so bad. He’d helped them avert a small disaster, after all. He probably wouldn’t do anything to harm the station too badly, in any case, if he really was an exile with nowhere else to go.

“What do you say, Doctor? _You’re_ not due at your shift for another two hours at least, and _I_ can’t rest until I see how much your natural beauty might be enhanced by my creations.”

Bashir stared and something finally clicked into place. It wasn’t just his imagination. Was Garak actually flirting with him now? No, no, he told himself desperately. This was probably how Garak acted with all his customers. But that comment about tastes. And Cardassian physiology… no, he was probably just doing the same thing he had been before. His tone of voice was nearly identical to the “do I make myself clear, Doctor,” he’d used when trying to arrange for Bashir to overhear what the Klingons were saying. Maybe another mystery needed to be solved.

“I’m not uh… sure I would have any use for a suit,” said Bashir cautiously, testing.

“Oh, but you must have _some_ time set aside for recreation,” Garak prompted playfully, edging even closer—Bashir turned sideways but held his ground. “Indulge me, Doctor. Or at the very least, indulge yourself. I know with all your fantasies, you must wonder what treacherous Cardassian secrets are hiding in the darkest corners of my shop, waiting to be discovered by you.” Garak gestured in the general direction of his shop with one scaly hand. “Well… here’s your chance to find out.”

“You insisted you’re not actually a spy,” Bashir said.

“So I did,” Garak murmured, leaning close and laughing softly by his ear—the breath tickled and smelled faintly of Rokassa juice. “But my dear Doctor, we both know you’re still suspicious of me.”

A weird shiver went up Bashir’s neck and he pulled away from Garak, clearing his throat and glancing around the infirmary—a few nurses hastily began fiddling with tricorders or pacing across the room purposefully, caught in the act of watching Garak and Bashir’s little exchange.

“Well, I… suppose I can take a quick look,” Bashir said quietly, raising his eyebrows in what he hoped was a meaningful way. “If it’s _really_ that important to you.”

“Oh, but it is important. This is going to be the high point of my day.” Garak put an arm around Bashir’s shoulders and led him toward his shop. Their strides were mismatched, of course, due to the difference in their legs, but somehow with Bashir walking briskly and Garak taking careful strides, they managed not to trip each other up. Bashir was glad so few people were out and about at this hour—as it was, he was drawing a few stares. But a faint grin was growing on his face. The prospect of solving another mystery thrilled him.

Then they were at the shop, and Bashir looked around at all the outfits hanging on display. Most of them were, frankly, a bit hideous. There was some kind of ski suit that looked like it was made of pink plastic sheeting, and a brown dress that had strange extra pockets of fabric bulging out the sides. But to be fair, the suit Garak had thrust at him the other day had been decent enough, and over there on the opposite wall was a dress definitely designed for a dabo girl….

“Now, let me think,” Garak said thoughtfully, padding in a circle around Bashir with an examining eye. “Can I interest you in some swimwear, perhaps? I’ve heard you like to make good use of the exercise programs in Quark’s holosuites. I modified a few designs from this catalogue….” Garak went to his desk and neatly folded himself up onto the Cardassian chair that waited for him. Like the others that had been removed before Bashir came on the station, Garak’s chair was specially designed so that his weight rested on his knees, with the length of his heels pressed for balance against a lower bar. Somehow, Garak managed to look extremely comfortable in this position as he pulled up files on his datapad.

“That won’t be necessary, Garak,” Bashir said, still staring around, waiting for some clue as to why he was here. “I’ve already got a very comfortable pair of swimming trunks.”

“Are you sure I can’t interest you in some formal wear?” Garak asked, looking up with a little smirk. “I promise to present you with much more ravishing options this time. I admit, that suit was rather drab.”

Ravishing. Bashir blinked. “No, that’s alright.” He was beginning to think that maybe this visit wasn’t about secrets or plots at all.

“Perhaps some sleepwear, then,” Garak hopped up from his chair with barely a sound and pulled a long, deep green robe off the wall, forcing it into Bashir’s hands. “I think you’ll find it’s quite soft, even for… smooth, human skin.”

Busy examining the robe, Bashir felt it before he saw it—Garak’s hand on his cheek, stroking gently. First with the soft palm… then the back of his hand, and Bashir marveled at the difference in texture as the scales on Garak’s knuckles brushed his skin ever so slightly.

“Garak,” he said with forced calm. “What are you doing.”

Garak’s eyes were half-closed, that little smile still in place. He looked at his knuckles as if they’d acted of their own accord. “Isn’t it fascinating, Doctor?”

Bashir waited for him to explain, feeling a resurgence of the same overwhelmed feeling he’d experienced on their first meeting. A Cardassian spy under cover as a tailor is trying to seduce me, he thought. He stared at Garak’s hand, dazed.

“Well?” Garak prompted. “Do you like the texture?” His eyes flicked down at the robe Bashir was still holding. Bashir’s head jerked up and down several times, looking between the robe and Garak’s expectant face.

“I… it is very soft, you’re right,” Bashir fumbled, trying to get a grip on himself. “But… we’re not really here for you to sell me clothes, are we?”

Garak blinked several times in rapid succession, and his smile grew warmer. “Are we indeed? What precisely are you proposing we _are_ here for?” He tilted his head.

“Oh,” Bashir said, carefully casual, “I’m not sure. You obviously want _something_ from me, but I’m not sure it’s payment in exchange for a pair of pants.”

“Perhaps I simply enjoy working on people’s pants,” Garak said all too innocently. “The work is it’s own reward. Trying to unravel what makes another species beautiful is perhaps the most enjoyable part of what I do.” His voice went low and soft. “I’m sure, considering _your_ profession, you must know some of what I mean.” Garak laid a hand on Bashir’s shoulder, and gripped it briefly, unevenly, almost like a half-second massage.

 Bashir looked warily at Garak, speechless. To his dismay, his mind was running through at least a dozen very important questions regarding Cardassian compatibility with humans on a physical level, and it dismayed him even further to realize that he wanted answers to some of those questions—from a purely scientific perspective, of course. But Garak, apparently, wanted something more than that, and Bashir had never exactly been in this position before… finding the best way to say no was surprisingly difficult.

“I… uh….” Bashir stalled.

Garak suddenly snapped out of his expectant look and began adjusting the zipper on the jacket of Bashir’s uniform. “Oh Doctor, I’ve been meaning to tell you for days now, but you really should stop trying to create a collar where there is none. I know it’s tempting to try and make the most of your limited repertoire, but I’m afraid even leaving it fully zipped and flat is better than letting the corners flip up like that. You see, this is why I insist—I want to make you something you can wear off-duty that will fulfill your need for variety.” He smoothed the front of Bashir’s uniform, then tweaked the grey turtleneck beneath, his fingers brushing Bashir’s neck briefly. Bashir caught his hands and pushed them back toward Garak.

“Listen, Garak, I uh…” Bashir cleared his throat. “I appreciate your advice, I really do.”

Garak let his hands hover in front of his chest for a moment before letting them rest at his sides, a curiously open and anticipating expression on his face.

“I just think… I need some time to think about what I want from you—from your shop, I mean, of course.” Bashir held up his hands, cringing inwardly.

“Of course,” Garak hummed, a grin curling his mouth gently. “Take your time. I’m certainly not going anywhere. At least… not that I’ve heard.”

“Right… well, thanks again. Let me know if you need my help with anything.”

“Anything, Doctor?” Garak asked slyly.

“Within reason,” Bashir corrected, grinning nervously. “Here, I’d better give this back to you.” He held out the robe.

Garak took it back, kneading it between his fingers thoughtfully. “A Cardassian’s belly is as soft as a human’s face, you know. Softer, actually, in some cases, considering we don’t grow hair. Isn’t it odd… how judging another by merely what is visible can turn out to be so… inaccurate?” Garak narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

 Now he’s talking to me about how soft his belly is, Bashir thought. What next? And again, the worst part was, Bashir couldn’t deny he was curious. He wanted to ask about how Cardassians compensated for their weak spot, or how well Garak could feel various textures through his scales.

But he shouldn’t dig himself in deeper. This was already getting too strange, and both those questions could easily be turned in a direction he wasn’t sure he wanted.

“It’s not that odd,” Bashir said, finally coming back to Garak’s probably-rhetorical question. “Sight is only one of the senses after all, and most people keep a good deal of themselves hidden.” Oh, no. Somehow he’d thought that comment would be innocent enough but Garak was nearly laughing and Bashir felt his face begin to get a little hot—out of embarrassment, of course.

“Ah, Doctor, I do enjoy our conversations,” Garak sighed happily, hanging the robe back up on its display. “I can see you’d like to leave now. Well, don’t let me keep you waiting—after all, you’ve still got more than an hour before you’re actually required in the infirmary.”

Bashir stood there awkwardly, looking at the back of Garak’s neck, with its spotty scales. He hoped he hadn’t somehow hurt the Cardassian’s feelings, or failed some test of observational skill, but he could think of no way of apologizing without drawing himself even deeper into this awkward situation. He either had to stay and play it out—perhaps to an end he wasn’t at all prepared for—or leave.

“I’ll see you at lunch?” Bashir asked.

“The day after tomorrow, thirteen hundred hours,” Garak said cheerfully, finally turning away from the wall. “I wouldn’t miss it.”


	3. Spaghetti on the First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the title! Garak and Bashir begin a tradition of weekly lunches and cultural exchange.

Bashir was nervous. Garak had invited him to have lunch with him in the replimat, and Bashir had agreed, but after Garak’s flirtations in the tailor shop, Bashir was beginning to see that perhaps this was going to be more like a date than he’d expected. His mind occasionally lurched at wild daydreams. Would Garak try to intoxicate him somehow? Well, at least there was no chance of awkward touches under the table—Garak’s feet would be occupied in balancing him on the Cardassian chair Bashir had arranged to be re-installed in the replimat.

Honestly, he had no idea how to approach this. A lizardly gentleman, supposedly intrigued by him? Surely there must be some other motive. He asked Major Kira for advice and she gave it without hesitation.

“Don’t trust him,” she said right away. “He’s a Cardassian and a good Cardassian is never what it seems to be. If you ask me, he’s probably just as slimy and manipulative as Gul Dukat, and we all know what kind of reputation he had.”

“We do?” Bashir blurted.

Kira looked at him like he’d just questioned whether fire could burn you. “Yes! Cardassians will prey on any kind of person—haven’t you heard about how so many Guls took Bajoran comfort women during the occupation? If I were you, I’d call the lunch date off right now.”

For a little while, Bashir had considered doing just that, but then he thought, well, they’d be in a public area, and Garak wouldn’t dare do anything that might make him even more unpopular… would he? There was only one way to find out.

Next Bashir wondered if he should wear something special for it, but decided that would only encourage Garak’s flirtations. So would bringing a gift. In the end, he showed up to the replimat exactly on time, wearing his usual Starfleet uniform. As he walked in, looking around for Garak, the Cardassian seemed to materialize beside him.

“Right on time! It’s so good to see you, Doctor. And I really must thank you again for arranging the seating—it would have been a bit uncomfortable for me otherwise.” Garak’s smile was effusive, and he took Bashir’s arm in both hands to lead him toward the line.

“It was no problem. And—and how are you today, Garak?” Bashir asked, standing slightly behind him. He tried not to stare too much at the thick scales on the upper side of Garak’s tail. Garak turned his head but couldn’t really meet Bashir’s eye without turning all the way around in the line.

“I must say, Doctor, I feel better today than I have in a long time. It’s not every afternoon I get to share a meal with such a considerate friend. Do you know what you’re going to order?”

“I hadn’t thought about it. Is there… something you would recommend?”

At that Garak did turn fully around, looking supremely pleased. “I’m afraid I have no experience with your taste in food, Doctor, but I think… if you like Tarkalean tea, you would probably do well to order one of the agarsal. My personal favorite is bodeen.”

Bashir did not have a clue what either of those words meant, but he nodded and smiled as if he had. “And in return, perhaps you’ll consider trying my favorite dish from Earth?”

Garak’s mouth opened in a little “oh” of delight. “I’d like nothing better!”

“Well, let me think. I’ve always been particularly fond of chicken noodle sss—” Bashir cut off abruptly.

“What is it, Doctor?” Garak whispered, eyes flicking around as if tracking a fly across the promenade. “Is something wrong?”

“Um. No. Nothing’s wrong.” Somehow, recommending chicken soup to someone who had feathers growing out of his head seemed a little bit uncomfortable. “I’m just trying to think of what dish you’re most likely to enjoy. I don’t know much about what Cardassians eat.”

“One can never go wrong with a bit of fruit, but I’ve noticed that there are very few human dishes where fruit is anywhere near the main course.” Bashir blinked and nearly missed another quick glimpse at the tip of Garak’s tongue as it flicked in and out of sight. Was Garak tasting the air?

“Well,” Bashir said, trying not to be distracted, “as far as plants go, I suppose we do tend to think of vegetables and grains as being a bit more... sustaining.”

“Whatever you recommend, Doctor, I promise to give it a fair chance at winning my approval.”

“Let me think,” Bashir said, trying not to feel as if he’d just put himself on the spot. They were nearly to the front of the line now. “Well, there’s… spaghetti. Tomatoes are technically a fruit, botanically speaking.”

“ _Spaghetti_ it is,” Garak smiled, and turned to the replicator to order. After being prompted by the computer for more specific commands, he ended up with a fairly generic looking plate of spaghetti marinara, topped by a few sprigs of basil, some olives, and a sprinkling of parmesan. While he was ordering Bashir stared at the back of Garak’s head—in particular, at the tips of his horns. Horns, yes… Bashir knew they connected to the ridges on his forehead, indeed were one and the same, poking out of his “hair” at just about level with where a human’s earlobe would be. Garak took his plate and stepped graciously out of Bashir’s way, almost giving the impression of a sweeping bow as Bashir stepped up to order.

“Agarsal bodeen?” Bashir prompted, and to his relief, the computer didn’t ask for much apart from a quick “specify serving size.” A bowl of something pinkish in the same family as jello pudding and fruity yogurt appeared. Bashir hoped it tasted as much like a parfait as it looked.

Together they went to their table, and Bashir watched in fascination as Garak sat in his little chair, unfolded a cloth napkin and tucked it into his shirt. But once Garak was done settling in and was holding a fork expertly between his pointed fingers, Bashir was suddenly the one getting stared at.

“Why don’t you go first, Doctor?” Garak prompted. “I’m eager to find out what you make of it.”

Bashir nodded and flashed a quick, nervous grin, before reaching for a spoon. Certainly, nothing else would suffice for eating such a thing? But then, the fruit chunks were rather frequent. Perhaps it was more like a salad, and the pink goop was more like a dressing. He glanced at Garak, who was grinning so much his eyes were slits.

            Bashir lifted a spoonful to his mouth and hesitated half a second. The urge to sniff it before he let it touch his tongue was very strong—what if it was absolutely horrid, or somehow toxic to humans? But that was ridiculous. Garak had no reason to kill him. Except some Major-Kira-like part of his brain said ‘Cardassians enjoy making other people suffer for no reason.’

            Garak was watching him. He didn’t want to be rude. Bashir put the entire spoonful in his mouth and was shocked to find that it was remarkably mild, with undertones of sour and sweet, but the dressing or whatever it was had a texture like raw egg-white. Also there was something about the fruit that seemed to make his mouth feel dried out even while coated with the egg-white goo. He swallowed with difficulty and smiled.

            “Mm! Not bad at all,” Bashir said bravely, scooping up another bite and trying not to give in to the very strong urge to cough or clear his throat. “Very interesting.” He crunched down on something like a dehydrated pea and his taste buds shuddered at the overwhelmingly _yellow_ taste. Somehow it tasted yellow in the same way that grass tasted green. “Now you try.”

            Garak’s grin faded as he considered the spaghetti on his plate and looped a few noodles onto his fork. They immediately slithered free of the tines. He tilted his head, his free hand resting lightly on the table, and tried again, eyes narrowing, calculating as he watched his lunch escape. On a third try he lifted the fork to his mouth, neck weaving a little—the spaghetti nearly slipped free again but his head shot forward and his mouth snatched up the ends of a few noodles while the rest fell back onto the plate. Garak froze, noodles hanging for half a moment before he sucked them in, somehow almost soundlessly. All that remained of this amazing display was a touch of red sauce on his lips.

            Now Bashir did cough. Garak blinked as if befuddled, then quickly licked away the sauce and smiled.

            “Is something amusing you, Doctor?”

            “No, no, not really.”

“Mm.” Garak looked back at the plate, absorbed in difficult stratagem. He tried taking smaller forkfuls, but this only made the noodles fall off more quickly. Garak lowered his head and snapped at the spaghetti sideways as soon as he’d lifted it from the plate, but he still couldn’t get a satisfying mouthful; the force of his snapping jaws cut the remainder free and splattered his chin with sauce. His tongue came out a bit further, then, but Garak seemed to remember his manners and reached for a napkin instead.

When he glanced up at Bashir between dabbing himself, Bashir hurriedly filled his mouth with more agarsal.

“I hope you’ll excuse me, Doctor. I don’t usually make such a mess when I eat.”

Bashir, unable to open his mouth now, just shrugged with eyebrows raised and made a noise with a very similar rhythm and inflection as “it’s fine!”

“Does it meet with your approval?” Garak asked, hunching in preparation for another strike at his tomato-y prey.

Bashir repeated the gesture and noise, with a bit more nodding and a bit higher range. He swallowed with effort. “It’s very good.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Garak managed to curl a more reasonable-sized bunch of noodles around his fork, and it stayed put long enough for him to put the entire glob in his mouth, but the ends were tangled in a big mess; it took him time and effort to suck them in. His head reared slowly and then dipped back toward the plate as he gave in and bit off the ends that wouldn’t come free.

Bashir stared, unable to rid his mind of the image of a bird pulling worms from the ground. After one more particularly gorey battle, Garak scrubbed hard at the scales on his chin, which seemed perfectly suited for harboring bits of tomato.

Well,” Garak said, squinting upward thoughtfully as he stroked his chin with the napkin. “The flavor is intriguing, but I’m not so sure I understand the appeal of making something that is so purposely challenging to eat! Does this stem from some deep-seated need for humans to demonstrate hunting prowess despite having no natural weapons to speak of?”

Bashir finally let out the laugh that had been building in his throat the entire time. “I doubt it. You know, some people prefer to cut the noodles up with their fork. But there’s also a trick—if you’ll allow me….”

            “Oh, by all means!” Garak surrendered his fork and plate to Bashir, who pulled it across the table.

            “Now, hand me your spoon.” Garak obliged, and Bashir began to demonstrate. “If you use your fork to curl the noodles up tight against the spoon….” He lifted the spoon for Garak to see the tidy little nest of noodles sitting inside it. He handed it back to the impressed Cardassian, who put the entire thing in his mouth just as Bashir had done with his agarsal. Bashir watched as Garak chewed slowly, and he wondered about Cardassian dental structure and digestion.

            “Much better!” Garak beamed. “Thank you, Doctor. But… you _are_ a rather competitive species, aren’t you?” Garak glanced meaningfully between Bashir and the spaghetti. “If it were up to me, I would have made the noodles much smaller, and perhaps added more sauce to make it into a soup. You have to admit, it would be much more practical.”

            “A tailor, a sociologist, _and_ a chef,” Bashir teased, finally starting to relax a bit.

            “Oh, Doctor,” Garak scolded, ducking his head as if to hide his sudden grin. “As if you’re one to talk. The young genius of Starfleet Medical Academy. Or are the rumors about you simply that—rumors?”

            Bashir gave a self-conscious little shrug, a short laugh, caught between his usual willingness to preen in the spotlight and some deeper caution. “I did graduate as salutatorian.” He filled his mouth with another glob of agarsal as an excuse not to say more. He wanted Garak to talk—he wanted to see if he could pick up some ulterior motive for this “date”.

            Garak nodded steadily, and set about curling himself another spoonful of spaghetti. “Tell me… have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

            “I was quite young when I made the decision, yes,” Bashir said, skirting around certain memories with an ease he’d only found after years of practice. “And what about you—have you always wanted to be a tailor?”

            “Ah,” Garak sighed. “I’m afraid I had to go through a few careers before I discovered my true calling. I envy you, Doctor, so secure in your destiny. But then, most people aren’t satisfied with their lot in life, are they?” Garak paused thoughtfully to spear a leaf of basil on his fork and nibble on the edge. “Might I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course,” Bashir said, thinking _this is it!_ Garak was either going to take the flirting to another level, or he was about to give Bashir a clue about the real purpose of this meeting.

“Who owns you?”

            “Excuse me?” Bashir coughed, hard—a bit of the egg-white stuff had hit the entrance to his trachea and his reflexes didn’t like that one bit.

            Garak gasped and leaned across the table. “Are you alright, Doctor?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Bashir said between coughs, eyes watering.

“I hope I haven’t offended you?” Garak asked with concern.

“No, it’s just—it’s not the question I was expecting.” Bashir took a sip of water and smiled. “You’re not implying that I’m some sort of property, are you?” Another small cough. “Humans don’t own one another—slavery was abolished on Earth centuries ago.”

Garak smiled, seeming relieved. “So I’ve heard, but, forgive me… I was merely trying to phrase it in a way you would understand. I know the Federation doesn’t agree with the Cardassian occupation of Bajor, but that’s not what I’m talking about. And yes, I _have_ heard of the Prime Directive.” Garak held up a hand to stop Bashir with a patient smile. “So humans do seem to value individual freedoms to a great extent, even of primitive or incompetent species. And _yet_ … the Federation’s mission seems to be collecting the willing allegiance of the entire galaxy… in the same _persuasive_ way as a large company buying up smaller businesses, if I may dip into the darker recesses of Earth’s past….”

Bashir began shaking his head before Garak was even finished. “If you’re implying that the Federation is some sort of corporate or colonial power—”

“Ah, but I’m _not_ implying anything at all!” Garak said eagerly, gesturing widely with his hands, spaghetti momentarily forgotten. “This is all simply to explain why I phrased the question as I did. You see… I’m curious about what motivates you. You seem quite driven. Are you—”

A loud clash and clatter came from the table just behind Garak, and Bashir sprang to his feet to help the gangly Bajoran who had just fallen, scattering the centerpiece and containers of silverware that were placed on it.

            “Are you al—” Bashir began, but was interrupted by the Bajoran’s shriek.

            “That Cardassian _tripped_ me! I was just walking by and HE TRIPPED ME!”

            “Lock him up in a holding cell!” cried another Bajoran, two tables over.

“YES!” cheered his companion, raising her fist. “He’s picking fights and disturbing the peace! Someone call the Constable!”

            “Gentlemen, madame, please!” Garak protested, looking around with comical dismay before turning to the Bajoran on the ground. “I assure you, I never intended to trip you—I can’t help if it my tail sticks out. It can certainly be a nuisance at times. Are you alright?”

            The Bajoran glared at him and refused Bashir’s offered hand, getting to his feet on his own. “I’m not cleaning this up!” He gestured to the mess, growling low. “You’re not fooling me, spoonhead!” He turned to Bashir. “I was walking by minding my own business, and when I bumped into that disgusting tail, it pushed me into the table!”

            “A likely story,” Bashir scoffed, annoyed by the slur. “That sounds about as convincing as ‘he ran into my fist.’ Now, unless you’re hurt, I’m going to ask you to move along… unless you want _me_ to call the Constable. I’m sure he’ll take your story very seriously.”

           “My sincere apologies for your clumsiness,” Garak said, bowing slightly with an apologetic smile—or a smirk. It was hard to tell.

            The Bajoran glared hard at both of them, finally settling on Bashir. “I knew the Federation wasn’t on our side.” The Bajorans at the other tables murmured to each other as he walked away, leaving the silverware scattered and the water from the vase still in a puddle on the floor.

            “What side?” Bashir muttered to himself.

            “I’m sorry you had to see that, Doctor,” Garak sighed casually, glancing sideways at Bashir as if sharing some joke. “I suppose we’d better clear this up before another distracted person comes along and gets attacked by a butter knife.”

            Garak knelt and began to pick up the silverware. Bashir observed the way he still perched on his toes, his knees hitting the ground at an obtuse angle from the waist. Garak had to lean far forward onto his hands in order to reach anything in front of him, and Bashir wondered if his hip joints were really that inflexible. He noticed that Garak’s tail wasn’t quite as tightly curled as usual—was it extending to act as a balance? Then he shook himself and got down on the ground to help too.

            “Do things like this happen often?” Bashir asked quietly, trying not to get distracted by the smooth pawing movements Garak used to scoop the utensils into a pile. Garak lifted his head to meet Bashir’s eyes.

            “If you mean Bajorans resenting Cardassians, then yes, of course. But it’s not every day someone purposely runs into my tail.”

            “You think he did it on purpose?” Bashir whispered, brow furrowing.

            “Well,” Garak said, a laugh in his voice, “Who can say? It might have been as intentional for him as knocking him over was for me.”

            Bashir frowned as he moved further under one of the tables to retrieve broken bits of vase. “So you did knock him over?”

            “I confess… Cardassian tails have very sensitive reflexes.” Garak was grinning again when Bashir straightened to set the big pieces on the table. Bashir gave Garak a suspicious look and ducked back down, looking for the smaller bits he’d no doubt missed. He pressed his hand ever so gently against the ground, waiting to feel the prick of shattered glass. Garak’s hand laid itself over his and Bashir froze. The fingers curled around his palm and lifted it.

            “Be careful, Doctor.” Garak turned his hand to inspect the palm. “Your skin is so soft, I can’t imagine it’s safe for you to be rubbing it around in bits of shattered vase.”

            Bashir was about to say that he knew what he was doing, but Garak met his eyes and their faces were suddenly very close, and Bashir could see the black part of the Cardassian’s lips very clearly….

            “You—uh—you still have some spaghetti sauce,”  Bashir blurted. “On your chin. It’s in between the scales.”

            Garak’s soft entranced look vanished as he raised his eyebrows. “Oh. How embarrassing,” he purred. “Thank you for telling me, Doctor. That reminds me—my food is getting cold.” Garak rocked back so that he sat on his long heels, and set his pile of silverware up on the table.

            “Yes!” Bashir agreed. “Uh, I’ll just use my napkin to clean up this water….” He went and retrieved it from the table. Within a few seconds the floor was more or less clear and Garak was sticking the salvaged flower arrangement into the vase at their table.

            The Bajorans were giving Bashir dirty looks now, and Bashir felt this was distinctly unfair.

            Garak had just finished eating another spoonful of spaghetti, seemingly unconcerned about the glares coming from all sides. “Now, where were we, Doctor? Oh yes. I believe you just answered my question.”

            “I did?” Bashir stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth. Was Garak referring to what had just happened under the table? No, that didn’t make sense….

            “You’re a representative of Starfleet, aren’t you? You didn’t deny it, even when that Bajoran tried to use your allegiance as a trap for blame.” Garak narrowed his eyes searchingly. “You don’t see yourself as an individual… do you? All your medical genius, all your morals… all of what you are, you owe to the Federation.” The corner of Garak’s mouth twitched up and he glanced between Bashir and an olive on the end of his fork. “Is that a fair assessment?”

            “No!” Bashir said, baffled. “I _chose_ to go to Starfleet Medical Academy! I chose to embrace its morals as my own. I am an individual, and Starfleet is made up of individuals—people and nations and planets, races, cultures… they can’t be brainwashed or coerced into joining; we’re not a hive mind! Everyone retains their own identity when they join the Federation, but they also become a part of something much bigger.”

            “A fine speech, Doctor,” Garak smirked, clapping his scaled hands gently. It sounded strange. “But one which sounds rather rehearsed.”

            “Actually, I came up with it myself,” Bashir said brightly. “Just now. Nothing rehearsed about it.”

            “That’s the best kind of propaganda,” Garak replied.

            “Propaganda?” Bashir blurted, but he saw Garak’s smile and hesitated.

            “Of course, Doctor. I’m a little confused by your tone of voice. There’s nothing wrong with giving a persuasive argument in favor of your beliefs, is there?”

            “No,” Bashir said, waiting for the catch.

            “Well, I think we might have more in common than you realize.” Garak set down his fork and turned his head a little sideways, but his eye stayed on Bashir. “Could I give you a recommendation?”

            “Of course.” Bashir felt tense again, wary of what Garak had in mind, but he tried to keep an open mind and an open expression.

            “It’s a novel… a classic, on Cardassia. The Never-Ending Sacrifice.”

            Bashir was so relieved that he laughed, and Garak gaped at him.

            “Excuse me, Doctor. Have you heard of it? Have you, by chance, already read it?”

            “No, no, I just…” Bashir set his elbows on the table and hid his grin behind clasped hands. “I would be delighted to read it, Garak.” A book recommendation! And here he’d been afraid it was going to be some critique of his uniform or worse, his Federation principles. Or, even more unthinkable, some suggestive suggestion….

            “Wonderful!” Garak exclaimed. “And when you’re done, perhaps we can discuss your thoughts.”

            “Of course!” Bashir grinned. “And in exchange, I’ll give _you_ a recommendation.”

            “I’d be delighted!” Garak straightened, stretching his neck a bit in a gesture Bashir could only interpret as pleased. “We can go to my quarters and pick it up after lunch. That way, we can discuss it next week. Same time, same place?”

            Just like that, Bashir was off balance again. “You want to meet for lunch again?”

            “I promise to make my tail behave,” Garak whispered.

            It wasn’t Garak’s tail that Bashir was worried about. In fact, he wasn’t really sure it would be wise to visit Garak’s quarters, but if they were just picking up a datarod, then he could wait outside….

            “Alright. I should be free this same time next week. I’ll let you know if my schedule changes.”

            “I look forward to it,” Garak said, with a strange chuckling undertone that, quite honestly, made Bashir’s skin prickle a little bit.

            Bashir caught a glimpse of motion from Garak’s tail as it curled up extra tight. He shifted his attention back to the glop in front of him, in which he felt he’d barely made a dent. And yet something about it was growing on him. He had begun to crave more of the flavor in the brief time they’d spent on the floor.

            “So,” he said slowly, “why don’t you tell me more about Cardassian cuisine?” 


	4. A Score of Zero Is Called Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak and Bashir play Tennis in the holosuites!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the [Cardassian Redesign](http://spica-tea.deviantart.com/art/Cardassian-Redesign-418447968) by spica-tea.

It had been several weeks since Bashir and Garak had started having lunch together and Bashir’s fear had mostly been overcome by his curiosity. Garak was certainly flirtatious but he almost always knew how to take no for an answer, so Bashir had stopped worrying for the most part and was simply enjoying the lively debates and cultural exchanges that came along with such an experimental friendship. And there was still the intriguing possibility that Garak was a spy after all. Bashir always held on to hope that he’d be pulled in to another bit of intrigue.

But for now, it was just lunch meetings and the occasional extra time set aside for sharing cultural activities; like today, which found them in a holosuite re-creation of the tennis courts at Starfleet Academy.

Garak blinked around at the cloudless sky. He squinted at the outlines of the California hills and tall buildings as a breeze ruffled his feathery hair and the collar of the white polo shirt Bashir had insisted he wear. Garak, of course, had insisted on modifying it before wearing. 

“Are these really ideal conditions for hitting a ball through the air?”

“Why, does the sun hurt your eyes?”

“Yes, actually, it does,” Garak said, going to pick out a racket. He had opted to go barefoot, and Bashir was secretly fascinated by his feet. The tendons connecting to each short, broad toe were highly visible beneath Garak’s tennis capris. They truly were more like the toes of a scaly paw rather than anything like human feet, and their leathery soles combined with the claws made an interesting sound when Garak loped across the court. 

“Computer, change current weather to overcast.”

A blanket of clouds covered the sky and the court dimmed significantly. Garak smiled brightly to compensate. 

“Much better! Now, I might actually stand a fair chance against you.”

“Oh I wouldn’t count on it,” Bashir teased. “After all, I was captain of my racquetball team at the academy, and racquetball isn’t all that different from tennis. Shall we take up positions?”

Bashir and Garak went to their stations on opposite sides of the net. Bashir held up the tennis ball. 

“Alright, now you remember the basic objective?”

“I’m supposed to aim the ball so that it hits the ground on your side of the net and you can’t hit it back to my side. If you do hit it back, I have to prevent it from hitting the ground on my side.”

“Right, but when it’s served it should hit the ground once on the other side before it’s hit back. It’s only if it hits the ground twice on your side or goes out of the court after hitting the ground once that I get a point.”

“Seems simple enough,” Garak said, crouching slightly and adjusting his grip on the racket. He leaned forward, tail uncurling a little. “Are you serving first?”

“Yes. We’ll see if you can hit it back, and then you can try serving.” Bashir lifted the ball. “Now, form is very important when serving… you want to swing both arms up when you throw the ball, so that when you bring the racket forward it’s one smooth, circular motion, like this.” Bashir turned so Garak could see him from the side. “And you want to of course hit it just above you so that it doesn’t go right back down.” Bashir demonstrated without actually throwing the ball, just guiding it with his left hand. “And don’t forget you can do a backhanded swing too, when you’re receiving the ball.” Bashir demonstrated again, and Garak copied his movement with a powerful flick of his scaly arm.

“Alright, Doctor. Go ahead and serve.”

Bashir took a deep breath, threw the ball up and made it sail smoothly through the air. Garak’s eyes locked onto it and he pounced forward, made a swing at it, and hit, but the ball hit one of the posts holding the net and bounced off. Garak ran after it and managed to catch it.

“Good!” Bashir shouted. “Now you serve it back to me.”

He watched as Garak carefully positioned himself on the edge of the court, legs spread so that one knee jutted toward him and the other aligned with the court boundaries at a perfect right angle. Garak tossed the ball in the air and hit it, but a bit late—it hit the court just before the net and bounced into it. Garak ran after it again, but it was bouncing low. Garak crouched to grab it but couldn’t move nearly as fast in that position—only a sort of shuffle. Still, he managed to trap it with his racket and hurried back to try serving again.

“Garak, would you happen to know what kind of hip-joints you have?” Bashir called, finally unable to contain his curiosity. Somehow he still hadn’t found the time or resources to study Cardassian physiology properly. 

“Standard Cardassian Union issue, I believe,” Garak called back. “Unless you’re saying you think they’re special somehow, in which case, I’m flattered, Doctor. I think your hips are nice too.”

“Um… yes, thank you, Garak,” Bashir rolled his eyes. “I was actually asking about Cardassians in general.”

“Ah. I’ve noticed humans comment on each other’s hips quite a bit. I suppose they are much more pronounced in your species.” Garak seemed to consider Bashir’s hips. “There can’t be that much variation in the joint, can there? It functions essentially the same.”

“Yes, but I can lift my leg up to here,” Bashir said, standing on one leg and hugging his knee to his chest as an example. “You can’t even lift your thigh to a ninety-degree angle.”

“Ah, I see. It’s the scales, I think. They’re very rigid in this general area.” Garak ran a hand down his hip and thigh. “I suppose we can thank evolution for that. After all, if we lose our legs, we can’t run away, and retreat is generally the better option when being hunted.”

“What about your internal organs? You don’t have much defense for those, if your belly is as soft as you claim it is,” Bashir pointed out. 

“That wasn’t much of a problem millenia ago when we went along with our bellies to the ground,” Garak replied, adjusting his stance again. “Our backs are quite well protected. We’ve also invented armor for the military with that in mind. I’m sure, as a human, you understand that cleverness is just as much an evolutionary tool of survival. After all, you don’t even have fur to protect you from the cold, let alone any predators.”

Garak served and this time the ball sailed neatly over the net, striking once on Bashir’s side before he returned it. Garak managed to hit it over the net one more time before Bashir sent it out of the court. 

“Good!” Bashir cheered. “You’re a quick study.”

Garak was busy chasing the ball again. Bashir wondered if he would ever get tired of watching the way Garak moved. The bottom half of his legs seemed to make up for the limited range of motion in his thighs. He was so focused, too—the way he locked onto the target of the ball suggested some kind of predatory instinct, but that seemed a bit odd in a pescetarian species. He tried to imagine some distant ancestor of Garak’s, snapping up fish in its jaws with lightning speed. 

Then again, Bashir reminded himself, apes weren’t exactly known as the greatest hunters in the animal kingdom, and yet humans loved the same sorts of challenges. 

“Ready, Doctor?” Garak hit the ball again before Bashir could reply.

For the next half hour, they played and kept score, and Garak developed a wicked backhanded stroke. His form improved drastically right before Bashir’s eyes, a thrilling confirmation that Garak was much more than he seemed to be.

“You’re a natural!” Bashir puffed during a break. Garak had finally pulled even with him in score. 

“Beginner’s luck, perhaps,” Garak suggested, also panting but not sweaty as Bashir was.

“Are you sure you’ve never played tennis before? What kind of sports do they have on Cardassia anyway?”

“I’m afraid the concept of games like this is lost on my people,” Garak said, “dribbling” the tennis ball with his racket. “We learn plenty of hand-eye coordination skills during hand to hand combat and weapons training.” He lurched to grab the ball when it escaped his racket, and started again.

“You mean you don’t even have informal games of ball in the street? Everything’s about military strategy or physical combat?”

“No need to look so aghast. Children’s games are one thing, Doctor, but the rules of those games aren’t established anywhere and can change at the whims of the players. I find it equally intriguing that humans are so obsessed with competitive team sports even as adults. The only things remotely like a team sport which survive into Cardassian adulthood are hunting and escape exercises.”

“Hide and seek?” Bashir laughed. “Well, at least some things are universal. I’ve played a few games of capture the flag myself. But are you saying that all Cardassians are given military training, or was that a hint that _you_ used to be in the military?”

“Ahaha.” Garak grinned knowingly at Bashir, his eyes slits of mirth, and twirled his racket in his hand. “It’s not going to work, you know. I’ve told you, I’m not a spy. Trying to trap me into admitting my secret identity is fruitless… because I quite simply don’t have one.”

“ _I’m_ just asking questions,” Bashir said playfully, pulling at his collar to let the air cool his sweaty torso. “You’re the one who’s acting defensive.”

“Now that you mention it,” Garak gasped, catching the stray ball with one snap of his hand and then dramatically freezing the pose, “I’m sure having a secret identity would make my dull life as a tailor _much_ more exciting. Perhaps I should develop one. Would you like to join me, Doctor? I’m sure we’d make a great team.”

“And do what, exactly?” Bashir laughed. “Fight criminals with sewing needles and tennis rackets?”

“I’m sure we’d think of something,” Garak said slyly. “The question is, would you be able to handle the double life? You’re already quite busy as the station’s chief medical officer, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Speaking of which, we’ve only got an hour left.”

They played until Bashir was exhausted. He checked the time and realized his appointment with his patient was in less than ten minutes. A good excuse—Garak was still going strong, and his latent competitiveness didn’t like being shown up.

“I’ve got to go soon,” Bashir huffed after calling the time out. 

“My dear Doctor, are you alright? Is it normal for a human to expel this much moisture at once?” Garak deposited his racket on the cart and splayed his fingers on Bashir’s chest, where the sweat had soaked through in a damp stain. He pulled his hand away with a shocked look, tasting the air. 

“Yes, it’s normal. And yes, many of us also think it’s disgusting, but there’s really not much we can do about it. It’s either that or overheat....” Bashir grimaced at Garak. “I hope I don’t smell.”

“Oh, not at all, I find your scent quite interesting.” Garak put a hand on his damp back and patted it slightly. Bashir could feel the hard pointed tips of his fingers drum gently on his shoulder blade. “Why don’t we go down to the bar and I’ll get you a nice ice-cold glass of kava juice?” 

Bashir took a swig from his nearly-empty water bottle and shook his head while he swallowed. “No, it’s alright. I’ll be fine. I’ve just got to hurry if I want to take a shower before meeting with my patient.”

“Then by all means, don’t let me keep you. I’d hate for you to be late on my account. Computer, end program!”

The tennis court vanished, with its surrounding breeze and sky and distant sounds of seagulls and motor vehicles. Once again they were in the stark checkered holosuite, floating on a station in Bajoran space. Only the cart and Bashir’s special tennis racket remained.

“I’ll just walk you back to your quarters, shall I?”

Bashir nodded and allowed Garak to steer him out of the holosuite and onto the second level of Quark’s bar. He jumped and actually yelped when Garak ran both hands through his sweaty hair. He could feel it standing on end now, and his scalp tingled from the massaging pressure of Garak’s scaled fingertips.

“What are you doing, Garak?” Bashir whirled, aware he must look absolutely mad now, what with his hair standing on end and sweat dripping from his chin. Garak, of course, looked completely innocent, like a child who’s been snapped at for doing a good deed.

“I thought it would help your head cool off faster. The air should be able to reach your skin better now. That is the purpose of sweating, isn’t it?”

Bashir blinked and waited, sensing. “Alright, maybe it’s working,” he admitted. “But… you really shouldn’t startle me like that!”

“My apologies, doctor,” Garak said, oh so contrite, but with a tiny ghost of a smile which made Bashir quite doubtful of his sincerity. They continued on down the stairs. Bashir reached up to feel his hair and arrange it in a way which would hopefully not look like a clump of something that had just washed up on the beach.

“Oho,” Quark laughed as they passed the bar. “I see you two had a good time.”

“Yes,” Garak said, nodding pleasantly to Quark. “We did. I’m sorry we don’t have time to stay for drinks today.”

“Just glad I could help.” Quark spread his hands and gave a little bow, grinning toothily. Bashir had the feeling there was some joke that had just gone way over his head, but he couldn’t think too hard about it now—he was running out of time to take that shower.

“So, Doctor, now that you’ve shown me the wonders of tennis… do you have time next week for me to share one of _my_ favorite activities with you?”

“That depends,” Bashir said warily, striding quickly along the promenade. “What is it?”

“Swimming. In the hot springs of Soukara. It’s very relaxing.”

“Swimming?” Bashir tried to picture Garak in swimming trunks and found the image oddly entertaining. 

“The holosuite program I use is a recreation of a particularly picturesque pool on a small island in the southern hemisphere. Lush plant life all around, occasional song from the local animals….”

“The delicious smell of sulfur,” Bashir joined in sarcastically.

“Well, if you don’t want to go swimming, then you only need to say so! We can do something else. Like a game of hide and seek in the scorching wildernesses of Cardassia Prime, for example!”

“No, no, swimming’s fine!” Bashir slipped into a crowded lift just as the doors began closing. “See you at lunch!”

Garak’s hand flicked out from behind his back and Bashir barely had time to register the bright green ball flying at his face before his hand snapped up and caught it. Then he saw Garak’s broadening smile, his eye ridges high as the lift door closed. 

What was that about? Bashir was glad he’d bragged a bit about his athletic accomplishments—otherwise his enhanced reflexes would seem out of place, especially after he’d let Garak gain on him like that. As it was, nobody seemed to have noticed. He looked at the ball and realized he had no idea when Garak had gotten a chance to sneak it out of the holosuite. 

Ah, well, he could hang on to it until their next little play-date. Swimming? What Major Kira would say if she knew he was going swimming with Garak! But he hadn’t even told anyone that he was taking Garak into the holosuites. He knew what they would say, and the thought had crossed his mind too. Meeting him in a public place, sharing lunch—that was one thing. Being locked up in a private holosuite for an hour or more at a time, well, that was something else.

It’s just swimming, Bashir thought rebelliously. Friends and coworkers go swimming together all the time. And nothing weird had happened yet. In fact, Garak had only invaded his personal space once they were _out_ of the holosuite.

Besides, it would give him a chance to get a closer look at all those fascinating scales.


	5. Getting Warmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another holosuite date! Bashir and Garak go swimming in the hot springs. Bashir studies Cardassian anatomy (as much as he can see anyway).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by Spica-Tea's [cardassian redesign](http://spica-tea.tumblr.com/search/ubercardassians)

            Sometimes Bashir found that the biggest dilemma about dressing up for an evening in the holosuites was whether to change before or after arriving. In some cases it just felt a bit silly to walk into a bar wearing, say, a powdered colonial wig, or the outlandish costumes of some fantasy story. Not that the non-human patrons would usually know the difference between the ridiculous variation in human clothing styles, but Bashir liked to be a positive representative of the human race in general.

            There was nothing ridiculous or embarrassing about swimming trunks, per se, but it did feel a little weird to walk in to Quark’s wearing nothing else except a beach towel and some sandals. Garak was at the bar with some rokassa juice, waiting for him and wearing his usual style of suit and pants, although he was barefoot again.

            “Should I go fetch another towel?” Bashir asked, and Garak swiveled on the tall Cardassian stool to face him, tucking his tail in so that he only just missed whacking it against Morn’s stool.

            “That’s very kind of you, Doctor.” Garak dipped his voice to a rich and tense depth as he slid off the stool. “But our rendezvous is already fully set up for our enjoyment. The only thing missing is your presence.”

            “Have fun,” Quark called sweetly from behind the bar, as he accepted Garak’s payment for the drink.

            Bashir hesitated. “What do you mean?” he whispered to Garak as they headed for the holosuite. He tried to keep himself behind Garak at first, but Garak lifted a hand to shepherd him and Bashir darted forward out of his reach. “What was there to set up?”

            “Oh Doctor,” Garak sighed. “Must you always be so untrusting? Always wanting to spoil the surprise… always so impatient.”

            Bashir checked his pocket for his comm. badge. Yes, it was still there, pinned onto the inside so he wouldn’t lose it. But it would be easy to pull out and call for help if need be, and if there was an emergency, the nurses had to be able to contact him.

            He glanced at Garak, who was watching his face closely. “I’m just a little confused about what kind of preparations you would need to make just for us to go swimming in a pond or a lake or whatever it is.”

            “The sooner we enter the holosuite, the sooner you will find out.” Garak stopped at the door, which opened into a lush jungle. He made a slight bowing gesture to usher Bashir through first.

            Immediately, Bashir could feel the difference in humidity. The air was thick and warm and smelled of plants and damp earth. There was a slight undertone of overripe fruit. The door to Quark’s closed behind them and at the sound Bashir turned, bracing himself for whatever Garak would do next, but the Cardassian just took a deep breath, head tilted back to gaze at the very distant treetops. Indeed, they were surrounded by vine-covered behemoths, all their leaves laced and edged with varying shades of red or purple. The vines and the trunks both had other plants growing out of them at intervals, beautiful downy or spindly parasites, some flowering with violent colors: magenta, electric blue, silver and scarlet veins.

            “This path leads directly to the water,” Garak said, suddenly right beside him. “But if you like, we can explore a bit of the surrounding woods.”

            “I think I’d better get in the water before the humidity sinks in. As it is I already feel a bit like I’m swimming.”

            “Oh, don’t worry, Doctor, there’s a nice breeze off the cliffs that I think you’ll find quite refreshing.”

            “Cliffs?” Bashir asked, but Garak just smiled secretively and gently touched his bare back. That was enough to get him moving down the trail, his sandals clop-clopping against his heels in the heavy air.

            As they walked he noticed a distant rushing sound. Air? Water? Suddenly, the air did thin out a bit. Then the trees thinned too, and there it was. Nestled against the edge of the jungle, hemmed in by two cliff walls, were several natural pools. They were irregularly edged ovals of stone which had formed hollows after eons of water’s gentle and insistent coercion. The nearest pool was large and dark with the rich mud at its edge, red fallen leaves and pollen gathered against the partially submerged roots of the surrounding trees. Its smooth surface was mottled with chinks of bright turquoise from the sky, visible between jungle and cliffs. There was a small corridor between the two, to Bashir’s left, and he could see that it led to a drop, with more green mountains in the distance.

            Hanging over a low branch near the water’s edge were no less than three thick towels in slightly varying shades of gold. A mat was spread on the ground, and on the mat Garak had laid out a few plates of fruit. There was a bottle of some beverage waiting in a bucket of ice.

            “What is all this?” Bashir turned to see what Garak had to say about this bold display of romantic intent. He caught Garak in the act of taking off his suit.

            It was a rather dark suit of almost-black green, and it had a seam down the front which held a hidden zipper much like Bashir’s Starfleet jacket. Garak shrugged it back over his shoulders and slipped his arms out of the sleeves before he met Bashir’s eyes.

            “It’s nice to get out of such heavy clothing once in a while,” Garak mused, draping the thick suit over another low-hanging branch.

            “Yes, I uh, I imagine it is,” Bashir said, staring at the grey and white spot pattern across Garak’s chest, the way the rippling lines of scales on his body faded into pale softness at his belly but intensified toward the edges, meeting in a stiff vertical ridge on each side of his torso. The beautiful large plate-like scales that capped his shoulders and went down his arms.

            And now he could see that Garak’s pants strapped higher on his waist in order to accommodate the opening for his tail.

            “Ah, yes, I imagine you have been curious,” Garak said, noticing his interest. “Not all pants are the same, of course, but these are fairly standard. The design is crude, in a way, but rather ingenious I suppose. You see, there’s a button on this side—” he unbuttoned the button on his right hip, “—and once that flap is free, you can unbutton this side from underneath—”

            And at that moment, watching Garak uncover the spot where his tail met his back, Bashir realized that Garak intended to fully undress, and he did the only reasonable thing he could think of.

            “Fascinating!” he called, and busied himself with crouching to take off his sandals. He heard the rustle of fabric, first against scales and then against leaves. He took a ridiculously long time undoing the buckle, waiting for some sign that Garak was going to enter the water before him—the slosh of water, most likely, considering how silently Garak could walk.

            But there was nothing. Bashir took his sandals off and quickly turned around to head to the water himself. He saw nothing but the grey outline of Garak in his periphery as he walked through the claylike mud to the water’s edge. The mud was warm. The water was even warmer, and the temperature seemed to increase the deeper he edged in. Bashir distracted himself from the present situation by musing about how if this were a real hot spring in a real jungle, he’d be slightly nervous about underwater creatures ready to bite his toes, and might not harmless holosuites like this be damaging to such simple survival instincts in humans?

            “How is the water, Doctor?” a slosh sounded beside him and by sheer force of habit, Bashir turned his head toward Garak without thinking.

            “It—it’s—what?” Despite all his efforts not to look, Bashir found himself gaping at the smooth scales between Garak’s legs. “You—” Bashir cut off in a nervous laugh and clapped a hand over his eyes. When he uncovered them again Garak looked a bit baffled.

            “I fail to see what’s so funny?” Garak prompted, angling his body slightly away from Bashir, as if preparing for an attack.

            “I just—well—” Bashir continued to laugh at himself under his breath. “There’s nothing there, is there? Nothing visible. I was—I’m sorry, Garak, this is embarrassing.”

            Understanding dawned and Garak’s head jerked forward in fascination. “I see! I _wondered_ why you were acting so strange all of a sudden. I should have known, with the way your species has to carry its sexual organs on the outside… I suppose your sense of physical modesty all stems from that, doesn’t it?”

            “Are you saying Cardassians don’t have that sense of modesty?” Bashir asked, suddenly all scientific curiosity again.

            “Well, _I_ enjoy clothes, obviously, but mainly as decoration and a means to keep myself warm. Now that that question is out of the way, are you going to relax and enjoy your swim?” Garak suddenly plunged down to chest-depth in the pool and blinked up at Bashir. “If the water is too hot, I brought some spring wine. It should be fairly cool.”

            “Yes, Garak, about that,” Bashir said, feeling his way deeper into the pool. “I was about to ask—why this romantic set up?”

            “Romantic?” Garak smiled, then lowered his head until the breath from his nose made tiny ripples on the water.

            “Yes?” Bashir said, unnerved by how coy Garak was being.

            Garak drifted a little closer to shore and the edge of his tail surfaced. “I simply thought it would be more pleasant for both of us if I brought refreshments. After our tennis match, it became obvious to me that I should make some accommodation for your methods of controlling body temperature.”

            “I see. So you have no intention of turning this into a date?”  Bashir went out deeper and treaded water. Its warmth _was_ very relaxing. He was tempted to roll over onto his back but he wasn’t sure turning belly-up was the best idea at the moment.

            “Well, now, I never said _that_ ,” Garak purred, swimming toward him in something like a breaststroke. Bashir saw his body level out some, tail uncurling further than he’d ever seen as his back emerged. “It can be whatever you want it to be, Doctor. If it’s just a swim to you, then it’s just a swim. But if you want it to be something more, that can certainly be arranged.” He circled Bashir smoothly, and Bashir felt the movement of water as Garak’s limbs worked, but there was barely a ripple on the surface. Suddenly Garak dived and disappeared, a small flick of his tail splashing toward the shore. Bashir looked around for over a minute, but the water was too dark and muddy for him to see anything. The jungle was very quiet apart from the distant rushing of waterfalls and a squeaking cry like some kind of rodent.

            “Garak?” How long could Cardassians hold their breath anyway?

            Then he felt something brush against his shins, and even though he knew it was probably Garak, he couldn’t help recoiling and splashing backward into the deeper water. Garak broke the surface several feet out, grinning, water dripping from his feathers and horns.

            “Yes, Garak, you’re very sneaky,” Bashir said in an overly parental tone. “But I think that for today, this is just a swim.”

            “As you wish,” Garak said lightly. “Are you able to see underwater, Doctor? I’m curious to know if you can approach me undetected.”

            A challenge. Bashir knew he shouldn’t take it, but it was nearly impossible to resist. “We’ll see!” He took a deep breath and dove under. When he opened his eyes, it was to utter darkness and confusion. And irritation. There was something in the water that didn’t sit well with his eyes, but he kept them open anyway for as long as he could bear, darting forward with wide kicks in the general direction he’d thought Garak had been. But his eyes wouldn’t stay open, and he was swimming blind when his hand collided with a rock. He continued for as long as he could hold his breath, then surfaced for air, eyes streaming. When his vision cleared, Garak was laughing softly, almost on the opposite end of the pool.

            “What’s wrong?”Garak called.

            Bashir continued to blink as many times as he could manage, trying to clear his eyes of the muddy water. “The water stings my eyes.” He gave in and rolled onto his back to catch his breath.

            “Oh dear,” Garak said, rapidly approaching. “I suppose you are at a bit of a disadvantage there. Now the playing field is reversed. I could order the computer to make the water clearer, if you like.”

            Bashir went back to treading water so he could see Garak properly. “How do _you_ see anything down there?”

            “Like this,” Garak said, and Bashir managed not to let out the shocked noise that jumped into his throat when Garak’s inner eyelids shut sideways, coating them in translucent white. Garak opened his eyes again and smiled. “It’s quite useful.”

            “Fascinating,” Bashir breathed, locking eyes with Garak, who went absolutely still and lowered his head again so that only his eyes were showing. His eyes were very blue, but also very reflective, so that the browns and greens of their surroundings were scattered across the surface in a migrating pattern as he drifted immobile on the water like a large grey log.

            They stayed like that for much longer than Bashir had planned… until Garak came up for air, and Bashir was tired of treading water. He went back to floating on his back and stared at the sky while taking deep breaths.

            “What’s that?” Garak asked curiously, coming very close and lifting a hand toward Bashir’s belly.

            Bashir instantly rolled over. “What’s what?”

            “That indentation in your belly,” said Garak. “Is it a scar?”

            Bashir blinked. “Oh, you mean my bellybutton?”

            Garak laughed. “Belly _button_? Is that what it’s called? How… cute. Is it the kind of button one might find sewn onto a coat, or is it the kind of button meant to be… pushed….” Garak pointed a scaly finger at Bashir as if desperately wanting to poke Bashir’s bellybutton.

            “Neither,” Bashir said, trying not to grin. “I suppose it is sort of like a scar. When humans are developing in the womb, they’re attached to a placenta, a sac of nourishing fluids. It’s what helps them grow and develop. When they’re born, we cut the cord that connects the baby to the sac, and eventually it shrivels up and falls off, leaving the bellybutton.”

            “How interesting. I only remarked on it because otherwise your body is so smooth and featureless. The only other variation in skin texture I could see is in the chest.”

            “Yes, we are, on the whole, not nearly as interesting to look at, I suppose,” Bashir admitted. “In fact, I have to wonder how our skin looks to someone like you. I imagine humans must seem either completely infantile or somehow repulsive, all slippery like a skinned animal.”

            “Oh don’t be crude, Doctor,” Garak began circling him again. “While it’s true that between Cardassians, the definition of our scales and ridges is quite important, I’ve never been one to overlook other types of beauty. You are neither infantile nor repulsive to me. In fact, I find the look of you to be quite... pleasing. Cardassians can appreciate smoothness and softness, you know. We have a bit of it in ourselves, but as you’ve pointed out, keeping it protected is a necessity.”

            Now Garak rolled onto his back and Bashir could see his belly and spotted chest, startlingly pale and smooth in the dappled light. Garak stayed in that position for a few minutes, unmoving with his arms and legs spread wide.

            “As you can imagine, this is a very vulnerable position, which is why Cardassians almost never swim on their backs. My limbs don’t have the same backward range of motion as yours, either.” Garak’s voice went soft and contemplative. “I must admit, floating like this makes me a bit nervous even though I know I’m completely safe.”

            Bashir shamelessly stared at Garak’s slick, wet belly, and for a moment he almost did want to touch it, it was laid out so invitingly, like a dog waiting to be rubbed. “You are being awfully trusting,” he teased. “How do you _know_ you’re safe with me?”

            Garak went back to floating on his stomach, smirking. “What would you do to me? Scratch me with your stubby fingernails?”

            “Oh, I’m sure I’d think of something.”

            “I’d be able to escape underwater. Are you hungry yet?”

            “No—I’m curious. About the other pools.”

            “Well, then, let’s indulge your curiosity,” Garak said, and set off steadily for the point where their pool connected with another, his head and the edge of his tail gliding through the water oh so quietly. Bashir followed with a sidestroke. When Garak reached the stone edge, he crawled out and didn’t even bother to stand upright before putting his hand in the water.

            “Oh, I’d say this pool is a few degrees hotter. Can you handle that, Doctor?”

            “I’ll have to feel it for myself.”

            Garak dove into the smaller pool, which was also much clearer. Bashir could see the smooth kicking of his feet and the way his torso flexed to help propel him with such direct grace. He wasn’t any faster than Bashir, but he did seem much more at home.

            Bashir scrambled up on the rock, feeling like the wet hairless primate he was, and stuck a foot in the water. “That _is_ pretty hot, but I think I’ll be fine.” He slid in and lay back against the smooth rock wall of the pool, sighing long and low.

            Garak came close and stretched out, crossing his arms on the edge of the pool and laying his chin on them, slightly angled toward Bashir. His legs floated in the water behind him, long and limp, and now that his tail was more loosely curled, Bashir realized just how long it was.

            “Is this the extent of your exploration?” Garak asked, eyes mostly closed. He looked so contented, and Bashir didn’t mind examining his scale patterns at such close proximity. The ones on his neck and back were quite formidable, thick and rigid-looking, especially the nearer they came to his tail. Bashir wanted to touch them, but he knew if he did that, it would give Garak unspoken permission to touch him back. So instead he simply looked, the hot water making his breath come shallow and his head feel a little light.

            “I think I’d better not stay too long in here,” Bashir said, and clambered back up into the air, which actually felt cool against his skin in comparison. He balanced carefully on the rocky edge of the pool and started walking along it to go see what the other pools were like. They seemed to be connected by small openings in the rock between them, and the closer Bashir got to the point where the two cliffs converged, the hotter the water became, until he could go no further lest he scald his feet. He stopped, staring into the pool in front of him. The rocks were coated with a black and white mottled growth, like some kind of algae, and he could see the bubbles rising from cracks in the rocky bottom.

            “Too far, Doctor?” Garak asked right by his ear.

            Bashir jumped and slipped, flailing—he didn’t want to fall into that boiling cauldron! His foot hit the surface with a splash, but the next thing he knew, Garak’s arms were around his chest and he was being shuffled backwards and steadied on a wider rock.

            “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Garak’s voice was soft by his ear. He let Bashir go, and Bashir turned to face him.

            “I didn’t even realize you were following me! You really need to stop sneaking up on me like that!”

            Garak hunched his shoulders, although this did little to diminish the length of his neck. “I suppose I underestimated you.” He looked at Bashir warily, not even smiling a little.

            Bashir took a deep breath, reminding himself that this was a holosuite and surely the safeties were on, so he couldn’t be injured by boiling water. “No, it’s alright. I think I _am_ ready to go back to the shore for a bit.”

            “Ah! Yes, let’s take a break from the water. I’m sure you could use a little something to cool you off.”

            Garak set off across the rocks with the same confidence he had in the water. Bashir kept pace, determined to be no more than one step behind. Once he put his mind to it, it was easy, and it kept him from lingering on the feeling of Garak’s belly against his back. It really was quite soft—he had felt Garak breathing in that short moment, too.

            They had to get back in the water to reach the shore where their towels were, and in an unspoken race they reached the edge at almost exactly the same time. Bashir smacked his hand on the muddy bank first and then paused to wash his hand off. He felt Garak drape a towel over his shoulders and looked up, but Garak was already gone, perching on the mat as he opened up the bottle and poured it into the glasses he’d brought in a little padded basket.

             Bashir joined him on the mat, sitting cross-legged, and tried a bit of bright yellow fruit, thinking it might taste like mango. It didn’t—it was somewhere between the tang of kiwi and the spice of ginger. Garak smiled and silently offered him a glass of the spring wine.

            “Thank you,” Bashir said, and quickly discovered that spring wine and whatever fruit he’d just eaten went oddly well together.

            Garak set his glass of wine aside without drinking it, then lay down propped on his elbows so he could reach the fruit too. He kept his eyes on Bashir, tracking his every movement as if Bashir were the only thing in the world. After chewing several more pieces of fruit, Bashir finally narrowed his eyes questioningly at Garak.

            “Why are you staring at me like that?” he asked.

            Garak blinked, still exuding utter contentment. “What else would you recommend I stare at?”

            “I…well, I don’t know,” Bashir admitted.

            “Are you not enjoying yourself, Doctor?” Garak’s tone turned concerned. “Would you prefer something more active or physically demanding?”

            “No, no, it’s fine,” Bashir said, checking again to make sure his comm. badge was still in place. “I’m actually feeling a bit sleepy now….”

            “I won’t be offended if you take a nap. After all, relaxation is the entire point of this program.” As if to demonstrate, Garak laid his head down on his arms again, his back lifting with a deep, slow breath.

            Bashir ended up lying on his side, and shook himself mentally. Time to take stock of his situation again. Force some logic on this undeniably enjoyable evening. In a holosuite with a naked flirtatious Cardassian who may or may not be a spy and quite capable of luring him here and drugging him, after which all kinds of things could happen.

            “Garak?” Bashir mumbled.

            “Yes, Doctor?” Garak lifted his head.

            “I’m still trying to work out why you set up this little meeting. If you’re a spy, this could be the part where you make me so sleepy and comfortable that I’ll tell you anything you ask or agree to anything you suggest. If you’re not a spy… well, the same general idea applies, but that would still mean you want something from me. So would you mind telling me what it is _now_ instead of letting my imagination run wild?”

            Garak opened his mouth a tiny bit, eyes widening. Then he laughed under his breath, and crossed his legs at the heels. “Doctor, it pains me that your unnecessary suspicion is interfering with a perfectly wonderful evening. Isn’t it obvious that _this_ is what I want from you? Conversation, exchange, company….”

            “That’s all?” Bashir blinked sleepily, skeptically at Garak.

            “Your presence enhances the mundane monotony of my life,” Garak said simply. “I can only hope mine does the same for you, at least to some small degree. Consider this an act of gratitude, if that makes you feel any better.” He gestured to the fruit and wine. “I just want you to be comfortable, Doctor, but it seems you’re determined not to be.”

            “Oh, I’m not that determined,” Bashir said, and flopped onto his back, arms spread lazily at his sides. He frowned up at the sky, thinking. “I just don’t think I should fall asleep with a naked man staring at me.”

            “A naked Cardassian,” Garak corrected. “Or is that worse, somehow? Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m curious—if I were human, would you feel _more_ uncomfortable with this situation, or less?”

            Bashir gave Garak an odd look. “I would feel _very_ uncomfortable. In fact, I doubt I ever would have agreed to this at all.”

            “I see.” Garak went quiet, smiling faintly into the middle distance, and Bashir wondered what was going on in that reptilian brain of his. He sat up to take a few more sips of his spring wine before it got too warm.

            “So,” Garak said at last, “you would sooner run the risk of being manipulated by a Cardassian spy than swim with a naked human.”

            “Well, it depends on the human, but if it were a suspicious man, then yes.”

            “Thank you for that insight, Doctor,” Garak teased. “I’ll file it with the appropriate intelligence service right away.”

            Bashir laughed. “Well, if there isn’t an ulterior motive… and even if there is, actually… thank you, Garak. I’ve had a good time so far.”

            It was only fair to show some appreciation for all of Garak’s thoughtful planning. And it was worth it; Garak’s face softened into a charmed smile.

            “You’re most welcome, Doctor. Now, would you like more spring wine?”

            Bashir was about to point out that his glass was only half-empty, but right at that moment, he heard a familiar gravelly voice calling his name with a deadpan I-don’t-have-time-for-this tone.

            “There you are, Doctor,” it said, accompanied by more than one set of footsteps.

            “O-Odo,” Bashir gasped, sitting up and nearly spilling the wine in his glass. He clutched the nearest towel up to his chest. “What are you doing here? This is a private holosuite!” Even as the words left his mouth he thought they sounded incriminating. The only thing that could have sounded worse is ‘this isn’t what it looks like’!

          Garak glanced up, poised in putting the wine bottle back down. “Ah. Constable. How nice of you to join us.”

            Odo was standing with his arms folded, flanked by two Bajoran security officers, one of whom was looking between Garak and Bashir with a distinctly sickened expression. Odo glanced once at Garak but thereafter kept his eyes on Bashir only. “Well, _I’m_ sorry I interrupted your little courtship ritual,” he said sarcastically. “But there was a barfight and I have at least two of Quark’s customers who need medical treatment before I can lock them up. We tried to contact you over the comm. link but you never answered. I brought a few of my deputies with me just in case something had happened to you.”

“Uh, sorry—I must have been swimming. I didn’t hear it.” Bashir swigged the rest of his wine and stood up, rubbing the towel over his hair, suddenly feeling flushed now that people were watching. When he finished, Garak was on his feet, ready to take the towel from him and fling it regretfully over a branch.

            “What are you doing with that Cardassian, Doctor Bashir?” the disgusted deputy blurted.

            “What? What does it look like?” Bashir said, and then groaned silently at himself. He knew full well what it looked like and that was the wrong question to ask. “We… went for a swim.”

            “And we were beginning to share a meal before your interruption,” Garak said, smiling aggressively at the deputy. “Just to satisfy your curiosity, although I’m not sure why you’d need to know any of that. Is it a crime for a human and a Cardassian to enjoy recreational activities together?”

            “Maybe a crime against nature,” the deputy muttered. Odo gave him a warning look, and the deputy clamped his mouth shut. Bashir hurried to retrieve the towel he’d brought and strap on his sandals, trying to ignore the others as much as possible.

            “I hope Quark will let you use the rest of your holosuite time another day,” he said apologetically, once he was ready to leave.

            “Oh, I’m sure he will. I can be very persuasive,” Garak smiled. “Thank you for coming, Doctor. I hope you enjoyed yourself.”

            “I did.” Bashir grinned. “I’ll see you later.” He reached out to pat the armored curve of Garak’s shoulder goodbye, then turned and marched toward Odo. “Let’s go.”

            He followed Odo and his deputies out into Quark’s, and was shocked at how much cooler the air was outside the holosuite.

            “Do you mind telling me how long this has been going on?” Odo asked, once the door had closed behind them.

            Bashir stared. Even Odo was getting in on this? “What do you mean, ‘this’?”

            “You and Garak having clandestine meetings in the holosuites. I was aware of your weekly lunches, but this is a bit more than I imagined you’d be comfortable with.”

           “Actually,” Bashir forced a casual tone. “It was very comfortable. The water was warm, the towels were soft, the food was good….”

            Odo huffed. “You know I’m not talking about the program or the activities. I’m talking about sharing those activities with a suspected criminal. I’m just a little surprised, that’s all. I thought you weren’t quite as naïve as some people seem to think.”

            “What people?” Bashir demanded. “I’ve heard the rumors about Garak. That’s part of why I’m trying to get to know him.”

            “Your business is your business,” Odo grumbled. “Just don’t make it _my_ business, and I won’t care one way or another about what you and Garak decide to do in private.”

            Bashir flushed but held his ground. No use protesting too much. “I appreciate that, Constable. So does this mean there won’t be any new rumors about me or Garak undressing in the holosuites?”

            “I can’t make any promises.”

            “I was afraid you’d say that.” Bashir sighed, but with spring wine in his belly and his body still basking in residual warmth from the pools, he couldn’t bring himself to worry too much. Even if Odo’s deputies did look like they were trying really, really hard not to blurt out all the reasons Cardassians were disgusting and vile and should never be trusted even when fully clothed.

            “We really were just going for a swim,” Bashir insisted once they were out on the promenade. “Really!”

            Odo just rolled his eyes. “Humanoids….”


End file.
